My husband moved out here in an all-fired hurry last August, and I don’t think I ever told you how that all happened.
Herr Doktor Professor* finished his degree last May (praise the lord and pass the ammunition) but hadn’t found enough work yet as of the end of the summer. We were looking at some pretty dire straits, what with not enough money coming in to cover basic expenses, not to mention my job-related anxiety making me physically ill (on the plus side, I did lose a good 20 pounds).
Then I got a Facebook message from an old grad school friend asking me to have my husband call her right away. This part I told you — a faculty member at the school where she is teaching quit very abruptly, and she was wondering if my husband might be able to come out on very short notice to take over. One week later he was here for the first day of class.
Unfortunately in academia that is Not How Things Are Done, so he is on a temporary one-year contract for this academic year while the department runs a national search to fill the position permanently.
That means he has to go through the whole search process, which is lengthy, redundant, and overly bureaucratized, in the hope of keeping his job for next year. If he gets it he will have the brass ring, the golden goose, the Gem of Amara — a tenure-track job. If he doesn’t get it we will be fucked six ways to Sunday. He is the inside candidate and we have high hopes that he’s going to be successful — after all, he’s doing an amazing job now — but still it’s a little scary and we are getting nervous about it.
The process is (hopefully) almost over, and the search committee is ready to bring the three finalists for the job to campus for their in-person interviews and teaching demos.
And then we will have the academic equivalent of the two-week wait.
* How is it that I’ve never come up with a snappy blog nickname for the husband?